Chapter 3
THREE
The next morning, I open my front door to head out for my run, and Wren is standing on my front porch, hand raised as if to knock, her face a mask of shock. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, uh, hi! I was just about to knock,” she says with a friendly but nervous giggle.
She’s in a jacket this morning, the bottom of a burgundy dress poking out beneath the hem of it, with thick dark tights covering her legs and a pair of low-heeled shoes on her feet.
With the flouncy bow she always seems to wear in her hair, she looks sweet and innocent.
“What are you doing?” I ask. That’s when my eyes drift to what’s in her hand: a green wreath with a cheery, bright red bow that matches the one in her hair.
“Oh, I was going to bring this to you! It’s from my parents’ place—they own Three Kings Christmas Tree Farm.”
I stare at her and don’t say anything. She bites her lip, the white of her teeth denting her pretty pink lips.
My mind trails off, thinking of reaching up to pull that bottom lip free with my thumb before I knock myself back into reality.
A reality where I don’t note how plush and pink my neighbor’s lips look.
“Why?”
She blinks at me. “I’m sorry?”
“Why are you bringing that to me?” There’s another moment of hesitation before she tips her head to the side.
“Well…you don’t have any decorations. I thought I’d make it easier and bring you one.
” She tips her chin to my door like I’m an idiot.
“You already have a nail in the door, so I just gotta…” She reaches to hang it up, and I step in front of where she’s looking.
Her jaw goes tight, the sweetness leaving her face.
Unfortunately for me, the cute doesn’t leave her face. In fact, the pout actually makes the cute more prominent.
“I’m not hanging that up,” I insist. She puts one hand on her hip and glares up at me. Up because she’s a short thing, I’m six-two, and she can't be taller than five-two.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to. I don’t want any decorations.”
She rolls her eyes and sighs as if I’m being dramatic.
“It’s just a wreath, Adam.” I like the way my name sounds on her lips, but I ignore that, too.
“I told you—I don’t like Christmas. I don’t like decorations.”
“And that’s why I’m here. I’ll do it for you.
We can’t have you being the only house on the street with no lights.
It’s tradition. This street has been fully lit every year for sixty years.
” With the way she’s speaking, I have to wonder if she’s ever been told no, if anyone can ever ignore her cuteness and turn her down. I suppose I’ll be the first.
If she were asking me about anything else, I might fall for it. But unfortunately for her, my undying hatred for Christmas and the feeling of failure it brings is stronger than her sweetness.
“I’m not decorating, Wren. Might as well get used to that now.”
Her jaw goes tight, and she assesses me before she surprises me by smiling wide as she takes a step back. “Oh, you’ll be decorating. You can mark my word.”
I choke back a laugh at her determination. “Good luck with that.”
She shakes her head, eyes sparkling. “I don’t need luck.
Not when I have Christmas spirit.” She can’t be real.
It’s like she’s the star of some shitty made-for-TV Christmas movie with all that outlandish sass and cheer.
I lost the battle to my laugh and let out a scoff, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Instead, she just shrugs. “You’ll see.”
Then she turns on her heel and makes her way down my front walkway, turning right down the sidewalk, then back up hers. Once she’s inside, I close the door to my own home, groaning as I rub a hand over my face despite the fact that I was about to go on a run.
I am so fucked.
Not because she’s clearly determined to be a pain in my ass, and I came here to find peace and quiet. No. No, I am completely fucked because I can’t deny that when she walked away with a bit of extra sway to her steps, I watched her ass move with each and every swish of her hips.
The following morning, I open my door to take my morning run.
While I don’t see Wren on my front step, a knocking sound has my steps faltering.
I turn in confusion, trying to find the source, but I don’t have to look far.
It’s a wreath on my door, hanging from a nail that I should have removed but didn’t.
With dark green pine branches and a giant red bow, it isn’t anything extravagant, but it’s still a Christmas decoration.
It confuses me.
Mostly because I did not put it there.
I stare at it for a moment longer before the chill starts to seep into my bones. Staring at the godforsaken decoration won’t do a thing. I’ll take my run and handle it afterward, I guess.
But the entire time, I can’t stop thinking about the green monstrosity on my door.
Thirty minutes later, I’m rounding the corner and catch Wren out on her front porch, locking her door behind her. I do my best to ignore the woman, reaching for my door before I hear it.
“Nice wreath,” she calls across the gap between our houses.
I glare at her over my shoulder and see she’s juggling two bags, a coffee thermos, and her giant water bottle while balancing a cardboard box on her hip. Her body is angled to face me, feigned innocence written over her face.
“I’m sorry?” I’m slightly out of breath after my run, and my fingers are frozen, but despite that, I turn to her, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Nice wreath. Looks good on your door, don’t you think?” There’s a hint of a smile playing on her lips, and she’s doing a bad job at trying to hide it.
“Did you put it there?” I ask, even though I know the answer. If she wants to play this game, I can play right back.
“Why would I do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, because you’re pissed I’m not taking part in your stupid decorating scheme?” That one hits a little too close, her jaw going tight, and I feel the warmth of a win rush through me, though it’s not as sweet as I would have thought.
“Have a very merry day, Adam,” she says, instead of continuing to argue, and then turns to move toward her car.
I turn back to my door, turn the doorknob, and walk into my warm house. But despite desperately needing a shower and to get my day moving, I stand at the window and watch her get into her old, shitty car that should probably have been replaced years ago and drive off.
When she’s done, I sigh and head to the kitchen to grab a drink. I’m downing that and deciding on what I want to eat before I head upstairs and stare at a blank paper for hours on end once again, when my phone dings with a new incoming text. When I lift it, Trent’s name is on the screen.
Trent, the former lead singer of Midnight Ash, for whom I still write songs.
I should have left it on Do Not Disturb.
Trent:
Hey, man, anything new for me? The label’s bugging me about getting into the recording booth with something new, but you know I’m loyal to you.
I groan and fight the urge to throw my phone against a wall or worse, respond with what I’m actually thinking.
No, you’re not; you’re loyal to no one but yourself. You know my songs are likely to perform well for you, and I’m the only one who can handle your diva antics.
I type out and delete a dozen replies, half of which would probably get me blacklisted in this industry, before I finally reply.
I’ll let you know when I do.
Irritation fills my veins, both at Trent for only ever contacting me when he needs something and at myself for this never-ending writer’s block.
Then I head outside, grab the wreath, and walk along the sidewalk to her front porch, where I toss the godforsaken thing down before trudging back home and trying to write the next big hit.
When she gets home from work, even though I tell myself I’m not, I’m paying attention.
From my office, I watch her approach her front door and, despite the three bags and two cups in her hands, bend down to grab the wreath from where I left it.
She looks across the way to my house, and I can’t confirm since it’s getting dark and the angle isn't great, but I imagine her jaw going tight with determination.
I wait to see if she’ll bring it back across the way, but she doesn’t.
That’s why when I open my door the next morning and see it hanging merrily on my door again, I’m surprised.
I leave it again, and this time, I don’t see her when I return from my run.
Instead, I watch her house from inside until she leaves for work.
Then, I head out, ripping the wreath off my door and tossing it onto her porch once more.
On the third day, I walk out, and there’s no wreath. Even though I’m happy to see my blank door, I can’t help but feel the slightest pang of disappointment that this game is over.
The disappointment is short-lived.
When I return from my run, the wreath is back on my door.
Across the way, a stern-faced Wren stares me down, her arms crossed on her chest. Her cheeks are pink with cold, making me think she’s been waiting for me to see how I’ll react.
I shake my head at her and reach up to remove it, but stop.
This time, instead of just being hung on the nail in my front door, the wreath is tied with a combination of tape and wire.
I can’t just easily take it off. With the amount of electrical tape on there, I think it would take me ten minutes and a knife to remove it.
Unfortunately, it isn’t that thought that has me confirming I won’t be taking down this wreath a third time.
It’s the happy look that takes over Wren’s entire face when she sees my hand drop with resignation, as if she knows that means I’m going to let it stay.
I wonder if that’s how she always gets her way: a pretty smile and a bit of determination. She could steamroll the entire town that way and get everything she wanted.
I know it would work on me.
But for now, I’ll give her the wreath. After all, what could one Christmas decoration hurt?